The Greatest Treasure
by Apple Juice Rhys
Summary: The Greatest Treasure; for most it's a tangible object. Some would dub such a high value on money, fame, or temporary satisfactions that see them from day to day but never last forever. But one for one Brooklyn newsie, it would exceed that and go beyond.


Disclaimer: I don't want to own Spot Conlon and fortunately, I don't. I want to own Randy, but that's for her to decide. Crazy Scripty owns her crazy self.

Author's Note: This is for my girlfriend whom I love dearly as an early present for our five month anniversary.

**_The Greatest Treasure_**

He always carried around the peppermint-scented hatbox with the misshapen lid, clutching it desperately against his chest as if his sheer existence depended solely on the seemingly insignificant object and its celestial condition. In some regards, they considered it an extension of his soul, for never would he dare depart with the blessed entity, and never would he dare deny it his company. It was indelibly a part of him, a means through which he might transfuse his being, or inhabit a most unlikely manifestation of his true self.

They called him Rhys; those closest to him implemented his real name, however: Josef. All, whether by coercion or free will, called him crazy. He was terribly set apart from the rest; an annoyance to those who strived in giving Brooklyn its austere reputation, but all in all his defiance was relatively remarkable, for it was conveyed in the simplest of manners. One night perhaps he would refuse to join the drunken camaraderie of Spot Conlon's fledglings and refrain from their alcohol-driven revelry, or on other occasions, it would be something as drastic as renouncing the leader's orders to soak one amongst the company who had crossed him.

Unfortunately, Josef wasn't a promoter of violence or mindless and barbaric bloodbaths, and this many a time earned him his own would-be purple heart (received in the manner of a purple _bruise _across his face). He never appeared to mind, though. It was as if it were merely routine for him, a habit to be confronted on the grounds of what the others saw as weakness or cowardice.

Popular or not, and perchance one might even wish to leave it open for interpretation, Josef nonetheless garnered respect from his peers. Those who were many years his junior would with wide youthful eyes admire the strength with which he retaliated peacefully; those who were the cause of his pains would inwardly nod their heads in approval of his unwillingness to break under the oppression to inevitably become one of them: a mere marionette for a borough leader who cared nothing for his followers. How many wished the tables had been rudely turned! How many often prayed on starless nights that this stranger from the upper class who had so suddenly lost his family, possessions, and aspirations to attend the most elite of universities...would seize the throne of Brooklyn and succeed Spot!

They would never see this wonderment, those who yearned for it. Maybe because it was never meant to be, and maybe because in their hearts of hearts they knew it ridiculous to place such a gentle soul as Josef through the dictatorship of a borough badgered by its enemies. He was much too calm-natured, and brimming with advice the others never comprehended, or more so _refused_ to comprehend. And what's more, such a child did he emulate in his ways and conduct; he was always reading and writing, organizing the secret contents of the confounded hatbox, and exchanging light banter with the younger children of the Brooklyn Lodging House. Was it possible for a future leader to be so amicable with his subjects? Had one ever heard of a king who actually treated his people with unimaginable kindness and concern?

Josef was the only Brooklyn newsie known for, or the only one who openly admitted to, having pictures of his family members, kept from the stains and impurities of a low class life behind thin spotless glass centered within four wonderfully carved baroque-style frames. Such a collection of photographs he maintained! Shots of his parents on their wedding, of his siblings and himself at play, of Christmas morning and blessed Easter services, of himself wrapped in his father's arms on the steps of Princeton University (the education for which he had been bound), of his mother kissing him lightly on the cheek before a birthday cake...the captured recollections were endless.

Even Spot Conlon was partial enough to the boy to grant him a bed near the windowsill, providing him a means by which he could carefully display his many pictures with the utmost delicacy. As charitable an action as it was thought to be, however, Josef soon detected the hint of malice in it, for the window by which he slept was the very one that saw heavy traffic to and from the lodging house roof, such that at least ten times a day, the pictures were knocked over or trampled upon and in many cases shattered. Only once did an actual photograph tear, and it was only once throughout his whole tenure at Brooklyn that Josef alas snapped, and took out his wrath on the indifferent boy who couldn't care less that he'd stolen from his fellow newsie his last possessions of remembering his deceased elder brother.

It was rare to find any who cared, though. The comers and goers would simply mutter an apology for having caused the frames to fall, continue their odyssey through the window from the fire escape, and go about their merry business. Josef would always be left behind to collect the ruins, to bereave for the misconduct in his confounded solitary state. Until one day.

She was the last person anyone thought capable of showing mercy. Raised on the streets by the mother of savoir faire and the father of determination and rigor, she was an immovable ruffian with a hard take on reality and a flamboyant personality none could tame. They didn't call her Fighter simply for amusement's sake. She was rebellious and defiant, her tomboy nature adding all the more evidence to the 0% chance of finding one's self in her good favor. Few dared speak with her; even fewer dared court her. _None_ dared cross her. She was more fierce than a mother dragon protecting its young from slayers, the core of her inner spirit more scathing than that very dragon's fiery breath.

Her eyes were more mesmerizing than those of a serpent, a certain riddling glacier blue which conveyed in the simplest of calm glances her anger, hatred, and woes all at once. They could haunt you in your dreams, and yet all the same provided within one's heart a yearning to see those irises melt with love upon the very sight of you. To everyone in Brooklyn, she was truly an enigma. No one ever could quite tell when her insults were in jest, or whether there was indeed some strain of authenticity in her proclamations to skin someone alive. She was loud, bold, daring, and unashamed.

And thus she wasn't the one all had expected to be the forthcoming messiah for Josef Rhys. But then again, she always reveled in executing the unexpected. And so it happened on an already tense evening draped with the scents of tobacco and gin that Fighter clumsily disengaged from the harsh metals of the fire escape, retiring from the quiet confinement she'd found on the rooftop to once again enter the madness of her dilapidated accommodations. The momentary repose hadn't done too much for her stress, as was clearly visible in how crankily she shoved herself through the lower half of the open window, sliding her legs across the sill where Josef's pictures innocently sat, and sending each somersaulting across the way whilst mumbling diatribes about liars and pig-like boys and those who refused to buy a paper from her that morning.

Josef sighed loudly, already rising to his feet from the bed upon which he had been reading his newly acquired check-out from the city's only library, and closed the book sadly. He waited for Fighter to curse him as the others habitually did before meandering off without the slightest empathy for his fallen possessions. But, unlike those who preceded her, she actually stopped a moment and gazed down at the mess she had unintentionally made. For one briefly lived second, her eyes undertook a contrite expression, terribly sorry for imposing on someone who had at least made an attempt to make the lodging house into something such a majority craved: a home.

"I'm so so sorry," she uttered softly and with much sincerity, as she dropped to her knees and began recollecting the frames and those photographs which had slipped from their confines by impact. "I really didn't mean for them to fall. I guess I was just in a bit of a hurry, or maybe my mind was somewhere else." She piled up the small rectangular objects onto her palm and presented them unto him with a friendly smile – something he hadn't seen in ages since first he walked between the hellish gates of the Brooklyn lodging house.

"Th-thank you..." The two words seemed foreign to his lips, for never had he received a reason to speak them. He took the frames from her somewhat hesitantly, not fully trusting her yet, afraid it was an ambush concocted by sinister counterparts. But once the exchange had been made, all that was left for order was a simple goodnight, as she smiled once more and then headed for her rightful bunk without waiting for his reply.

From that moment on, they were virtually inseparable. At last had he found the rejuvenating spring amidst the expanse of the desert sands. At last had he found the source of complacency amidst all life's troubles. It came to be a dependency, such that he absolutely _needed_ to be with her every hour of the day; he needed to tag along and share every waking moment with the one who had been so kind as to accept him as he was.

She tolerated him simply because it wasn't expected of her. All laid bets for the moment during which she'd bark at him to back off with the sting of a viper, and she'd do anything before fulfilling _their_ obligations. Sometimes, though, the company tested her patience. She was used to being a loner, to carrying her own burdens and fighting the system with her own two hands. Quite an adjustment it was to take him into account, and more so to tarnish her reputation by being seen with the weakest link of the entire borough, and the confounded hatbox he never ceased to carry about.

"What do you carry in that stupid box anyway!" She asked of him, on a particular morning when her tolerance was scant and her snappy proclivities at their highest. The thing drove her absolutely mad! Circular in shape and no more than four inches tall, the design of fruits on the box upon a black background dizzied her and evoked in her every urge to snatch the object and toss it into the chilly depths of the East River.

But in time, she came to accept this as but another expression of his extremely different personality. In fact, she came to like him all the more because of it. Here was someone who wasn't afraid to embrace the sensitivities of life, who wasn't willing to freely stamp himself with a census number and join the falling ranks of society's rabid rat race. Here was someone who wouldn't wear a facade only to please a malevolent leader who, in just years, would enter the real working class and be only another occupant of the already overpopulated state. He was more than ready to take risks in life, to stand up for what he believed in without regard to what friends he'd lose or what injuries he'd reap.

He was also one of the few amongst the paper-peddling masses who actually listened when one spoke, who actually cared when one was sad or upset, or perhaps just down from a day of failures and shortcomings. He'd drop everything on his schedule when someone needed a friend; he'd deny himself his own pleasures if only to provide someone in dire conditions with a light in their darkness, or a whisper of hope in all the city's blaring cacophony. He listened with heart, compassion, and wisdom. He listened with a sincere desire to change the world, and with a calm spirit which made anyone feel at home.

She noticed this not too long into their friendship, and thought it more precious than selling out two hundred papers in one day. Someone who cared? The concept was inconceivable...and yet the concept was a reality in _him_. It wasn't weeks before they were the best of friends. To her, it was no longer a pity relationship to save him from the claws of Brooklyn's idiocy. Now it was something far more special; it was something for which she awoke every morning with a smile, for which she continued living through life's drudgeries and battling the injustices of the unbalanced society.

Ignoring the talk of the others, she found herself spending more and more time with him. Whether it was sharing lunch at Tibby's, walking down the expanse of the docks in the evening, dallying through Central Park on Sunday mornings, or exchanging dreams under the skyscapes of the heavens well pass midnight, their moments with one another were increasing in quantity. Never had she known a friend as loyal as he; never had she been in the company of one who made her feel irreplaceable and comfortable all the same. On those days when they weren't able to socialize with one another for whatever reasons, they wrote feverish letters which many a time came to be ten-pages long at minimum, and many a time had little to do with anything of drastic importance.

Their relationship mirrored that of two undividable companions. They laughed together, fortifying a repertoire of jokes. They mourned together, sharing life's misfortunes and tragedies. To each, the other was the only reason to live. To each, the other was the only reason to love. And it wasn't long until love did in fact enter the equation.

It was a certain October dusk that found the two best friends relaxed on the rooftop of the lodging house speaking of relationships, let-down's, and the stresses of living for two. Josef, by this time, had cultivated such an infatuation for the girl that his heart palpitated at the mere sound of her voice. Even now, being so close to her and having her all to himself, turned his heart aflutter and stirred him to experience the most intense of passions his heart could create. It burned his soul, it moved him to an extreme yearning he couldn't suppress.

"Randy, can I ask you a question?" He'd taken to using her real name not too long ago, when she had felt so at ease with him as to give him the privilege, and deal it to him alone, for there was none other who knew of the endearing five letters that were her than him. "This is a bit hard for me to say, but I'm supposing it's been obvious enough. I...I like you, Randy. No, I love you even. And I was wondering if you'd like to be my girlfriend?"

Her heart broke upon hearing the words. Weeks before the day she'd known all along what her answer would be should he bring up such a query. But never had she known how difficult it would be to deny him. And so she tried to explain in extreme detail why they couldn't, how they'd be the laughing stock of the entire borough, how the others would talk and spread rumors and make the relationship into something it was never meant to be: a misery.

"I'm sorry," she said, recalling that moment how they'd been the first words she'd first uttered to him those long months ago, recalling how much she was breaking his heart and how much she wanted to simply assuage his pain and take him into her arms. She longed for his embrace! She longed to feel his lips on hers, and to feel his black sheen locks of hair fall against her cheek as they snuggled against each other in a single bunk, giggling and lacing their fingers while arguing over who loved who the most. "I should go..." And with that, she left him on the roof and hurried down the fire escape to her bunk inside, where she threw herself onto the hard mattress and drowned in the excess of her hurt.

They didn't talk for weeks after that night. They were either too afraid of getting hurt, too ashamed to face the other now that their more than friendly feelings were in the air, or too angry with themselves for having ruined the most priceless relationship each had ever known. Sometimes Josef would boldly declare to himself that this was the day, that he was going to saunter toward her void of fear and ask back her friendship. He always failed. She, too, attempted to do such things. Sometimes at Tibby's she would sit especially close to the table where he'd be eating with David Jacobs, and would in some manner try to gain his attention, either by excessive movement or loud speech.

An example of the latter occurred one December afternoon, when someone aside her asked what was the greatest treasure ever she had discovered. Glancing at Josef, who was busily drumming his fingertips upon the lid of that ever present hatbox, she cleared her throat dramatically and spoke in a stage voice: "The greatest treasure I've ever had and hopefully still have is Josef's friendship." The ones at her own table either cooed, laughed, or downright ridiculed her for selecting such an oddity.

One particular boisterous girl named Scripty chugged down her soda pop and in voice so clamorous, stood to her feet and directed a question to the back of Josef's head. "What about you, Josey-poo? Is _Fighter _your greatest treasure? You two haven't talked in months now. I hope you two are still in _love_."

Josef combed his fingers through his hair irritably and immediately came to his feet with every intention to leave the restaurant, the box tucked safely under his arm. But Scripty did as much as grab him and swing him around to face her. "Answer the simple question, Josef! What's your greatest treasure?"

He looked from Randy to Scripty to Randy again. Could it not be any more obvious? Were the masses of Brooklyn so blind as to disregard the undying love he had for her! "You," was his answer, his navy blue eyes rested on the beautiful seraphim that was his best friend.

Randy felt weightless when the word left his mouth. Half of her wanted so dearly to believe it, but how _could_ it be her? How could he show such adoration for her after she had pained him so? It was no more than a cover up perchance, it was no more than a strain of amnesty on his behalf, in which he refused to embarrass her in front of her friends by naming another. She shook her head and traced her fingertip across the design of the table.

He knew then she didn't believe him, but knew not how to convince her, or if he even should try. And so he attempted to wrench himself free of Scripty, wanting desperately to break from their scorn and condescension, wondering why they were so intent on putting a spotlight on the two. But Scripty wasn't necessarily eager to let him flee from the situation, and tugging him back even closer to the table, she accidentally knocked the hatbox free from his hold, causing the object to lollygag across the tiles of the floor and crash against the legs of a chair, the impact popping open the container's lid and hordes of papers ushering out from the final lack of compression.

Stationery of every imaginable color, style, and size were issued from the hatbox, gliding this way and that from the occasional gush of air birthed from the ever opening entrance door. Josef stood motionless at the table, lips ajar as he gaped at the sight, disbelieving his very being was now exposed for everyone's pleasure. Scripty collected a certain archaic-looking piece of paper that had migrated all the way to her foot, and began reading aloud its text. It was a love letter. From Randy.

Embarrassed to the extremes, Josef rushed out the building, trampling over the precious letters, hot tears in his eyes. That was what they had wanted all along, wasn't it? Insight into the private life of Josef Rhys, the why's of his reasoning for carrying so close to his heart the confounded hatbox.

He escaped into a nearby alley and let his anger flush out. Kicking trash cans and discarded boxes, he slammed his hands against the edifice of a brick construction and yelled out all his indignation. But the rage soon dissipated, and all that was left afterward were the shallow gasps of his cries. He laid his forehead against the structure, and let his shoulders heave up and down as he wept.

Minutes later, when he felt the small hand upon his back, he gasped and spun around. His vision was blurred by tears but he saw clearly who it was: Randy, his greatest treasure.

"You kept letters in your box, Josef. Letters from family and friends...most of them were letters from me. Why?" She held the box in one hand. She'd ordered off the others and had reclaimed each piece of notepaper one by one, making sure none was lost, making sure all returned to their home in the box.

"Memories, Randy. I kept memories in the box. And it's the memories that are my greatest treasure. Not pieces of paper, or handwriting, or faded ink. But memories. Recollections that make me smile when I'm sad, that make me wish I can go back in time and relive them, that remind me of who I am and why I can look forward to tomorrow. But the reason I answered Scripty's question as so was because my favorite of memories were of those times I spent with you. Of those times when you were the only friend I had, and loved me no matter what. Of those times I wanted ever so much to just press against you until we were not two lovers, but one."

For a moment, he was sure she would think him absurd, and was quite ready to turn around and start off for the lodging house. But of a sudden, she stepped forward, pushed him gently against the brick wall, and kissed him the way she had always wanted to kiss him, the way she had always wanted to feel him, and the way she had always wanted to love him.

It would be their first memory as a couple.

0}--- _I love you_


End file.
